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As Jenny pinned a rosebud cut fresh from the garden onto her frock, she remembered standing in this scullery for the very first time exactly a year ago. Then, she had been an excited bride clutching a posy of lily-of-the-valley tied up with blue haberdasher’s ribbon.

Now, she thought, Arthur and she were a very ordinary couple living very ordinary lives. But back then at the Locarno, a time that seemed so long ago, her first impression was that he was like a god, so tall and fair. Arthur, in reality a hardworking clerk for Henry Hughes & Hughes, had come along mainly to keep his friend Sidney company and it was he who suggested they ask the two laughing dark-haired girls to dance.

The band struck up ‘Happy Feet’ and Arthur asked his dancing partner if she’d ever heard Jack Hylton & His Orchestra play. She hadn’t but smiled anyway, a lovely, natural smile, Arthur thought.

For the rest of that summer, they walked out together and eventually Jenny took Arthur home to meet her parents. Her father, a porter at Covent Garden fruit market, took him out into their tiny back yard and, while puffing on a venerable pipe, grilled the polite young man before him on his intentions towards his eldest daughter.

The Dickens family was a large one and Jenny’s mother often struggled to keep poverty from the door. Arthur however was the only child of a comfortably off couple originally from Kent. Although his mother doted on him, Arthur Charlesworth Snr took care to instill in his son a keen awareness of life’s responsibilities.

Soon enough, they were officially engaged. Their world was bounded by the busy drag that was Streatham High Road. They saw a Jack Buchanan film in the Odeon’s cheap seats and caught the trolleybus to Streatham Hill to watch ‘Murder in Mayfair’ at the theatre. There were some half-hearted tennis lessons and long walks, hand in hand, with stolen kisses in the shrubberies of the Common. And on Jenny’s twenty-first birthday, they spent a magical evening at Crystal Palace where Jenny squealed with pleasure (and Arthur held her tight) as they rode the newest showground ride at Thurston’s Fair.

The wedding was a quiet affair but the men of both families rolled back the carpet at Leigham Avenue, the groom’s family home.

Arthur brought a blush to his new mother-in-law’s cheeks with an energetic foxtrot and Jenny thought she would never have a day so happy as this one in her whole life.

And now here she was, daydreaming, when she had still to make the sandwiches for today’s outing. Plain ham for her and some English mustard spread on top for Arthur. Two crisp green apples, along with a flask of tea, were already packed in the basket.

To celebrate their first anniversary, Arthur had suggested taking the early train down to Brighton and making a day of it at the coast. Jenny knew that the wind-up gramophone would accompany them, as it did everywhere, and she’d tucked a record of ‘Happy Feet’ into its lid. No matter if Arthur thought her sentimental – she still remembered that first dance.

She wore her favourite blue frock but had replaced the rather tired collar with one she’d sewn out of some pretty lace. And on her slim feet were new shoes bought at Pratt’s Department Store which she felt showed off her ankles to perfection.

Arthur’s colleagues would scarcely have recognised him. Day in and day out dressed in a drab grey suit, he was today resplendent in tan knickerbockers, matching argyle patterned socks and co-respondent shoes. Jenny thought what a very handsome husband she had and how lucky they were to have each other.

As they sat on the train together, she considered when the best moment would be to break her news to him. Perhaps after they’d had their first cup of tea on the beach or when the gramophone was playing their favourite song.

Catching her reflection in the window, Jenny saw that Arthur was smiling at her and as she turned, he reached out his hand to take hers.

“Your mate seems a little disturbed by my interviewing you – he’s got his head stuck under his feathers.”

“Oh don’t mind him. I said to him not half an hour ago, I said ‘Maurice, it’s very nice being up high on this wall, but we’re only going to draw attention to ourselves.’ I mean, it’s not exactly natural is it? Ducks on walls?”

“I said ‘On the river, Maurice – that’s where we belong – high living isn’t for the likes of us’ but he’s got it into his head that he has to make a – what does he call it – a statement – I ask you. Anyway, here we are on this blessed wall and I don’t mind telling you, I’m starting to get a little dizzy.”

“You do look great up there though. Not many ducks have your natural composure.”

“Thank you dear. [Ruffles feathers proudly] Well, if we’re here for everyone to see, the least we can do is smile is what I say.”

“I do appreciate it.”

“Not at all dear – now would you like my other side? Maurice always says it’s my best.”

Street theatre’s a hard gig, take it from me. The excited screams of children, photographers snapping away from every angle and traffic noise that can overwhelm the sound system. And the weather’s always a worry – will the gear stand up to a sudden gust of wind or downpour of rain?

Thank goodness the audience doesn’t realise all this. Of course, when you’re on, all of that vanishes. The body’s aches and pains, the worries of everyday life simply cease to exist. But now — after — the energy that you needed for the show slowly uncoils.

That aching shoulder makes presence known again and your costume feels itchy and heavy. Your make up runs streaky with sweat. And tired. God, you hadn’t realised how tired you were. That first ciggie feels blissful, even though you know it’s bad for you. You can finally let your face sink into repose. You don’t want to talk to anyone yet, just grab a moment for yourself to recover from all that intensity. Relief and resignation are washing over you. It’s done, over, nothing you can do about it now. Tomorrow’s another show, another day, another place. The doubts will come later: was it ok, was I ok? How was the audience, will we be asked back next year?

Your stomach starts to rumble. The set-up tonight took longer than expected, so you missed dinner. Now you’re longing for fast, greasy food. You could murder a long, cool beer too.

Then a couple of hours spent laughing and joking with your fellow performers, congratulating each other on your collective brilliance. Trying your best as always to ignore the producer who’s hell-bent on giving you notes on what “wasn’t quite as good as usual” in today’s show.

Graham Gnu v Senga Leo

Scene I: Background to the case

Graham Gnu’s real name was Wullie – Wullie Wildebeest – but he hated it. Wullie sounded so old-fashioned, so uncool. When he was a calf, the others would ask if he sat on a bucket and wore tackity boots. So when he was old enough, he picked the name Graham to fit his identity as a gnu – not as a wildebeest. His younger brother, who hero worshipped Wullie Graham, followed his lead and took the name George.

Graham and George were close, very close. They watched each others’ backs. Graham was fast on the gallop, but George’s sense of smell was so superior even for a gnu that he could raise the alarm when the South Side pride was half a mile away. Only George, it was said, could identify each lion by its individual smell.

The South Side pride was led by Big Jimmy. Sporting a magnificent black mane, he had a reputation to maintain. They all knew that roaring ‘Heh Jimmy’ at him even in jest wasn’t a good move unless they wanted a limp that would last a fortnight.

The girls were Phemie, Tracy and Senga. Phemie was getting a bit long in the tooth (when she breathed on you, the smell was enough to turn your stomach) but she was still the leader. She was Jimmy’s first choice for mating too but, as she’d told the other girls one day while

relaxing under a tree, this was a mixed blessing as Jimmy was a’ mane an’ nae bollocks. Tracy was Phemie’s daughter and her mother despaired of her ever making a kill on her own. Kids, you bring them up, you think that’s the job done and still they cannae kill a defenceless calf! Senga was the youngest and the most ambitious – she’d been known to stalk a full grown elephant until someone put her right.There were always half-grown cubs kicking around too – not totally up to the job yet but certainly quite enough to put a gnu off his grass.

Graham never wanted to be one of the herd. He was born into it, of course, streaming across the savannah at Hampden with ten thousand others, but his heart just wasn’t in it. He knew there could be more to life. The day he trimmed his straggly whiskers and slipped on a leather jacket was the day he knew there was no turning back.

He told George he was leaving the herd. He spoke of the family members they’d lost to rushing rivers (nobody in the family but him had bothered to learn to swim) and to predation by the South Side pride. He said there was a better life out there, beyond the Byres Road crossing. He didn’t expect that his brother would try to argue him out of it. It’s just how it is, Graham – we’re gnus – don’t fight it! Graham was gutted but he knew that a gnu had to do what a gnu has to do.

He turned and walked away from George. He stopped watching George’s back. And that’s when it happened.

Gnu v Leo
Scene II: The Court

The morning’s hot and the court is packed. Bovine, equine and feline scent glands are working overtime. At 10am precisely, The Honourable Lord Aquila leaves his chambers and enters the courtoom. Settling his ruffled feathers back into place, he fixes the room with a yellow-eyed glare. Quentin Quagga QC shifts uneasily under the beak’s gaze.

Good lord, it’s that idiot Quagga – thought he’d been disbarred. They say he’s doing this pro bono – friend of the deceased or some such nonsense thinks his Lordship. Ah, we’ve got Pardus, have we? He’ll give us some fireworks. Stout fellow – wouldn’t like to get in his way though.

Prosecuting Counsel Peter Pardus QC has casually draped his body along the back of the bench, only inches from a row of gazelle, who shrink back in their seats with terror-stricken eyes. Hmm pity I had breakfast at chambers – I quite fancy one of those right now he thinks.

Graham Gnu, the plaintiff, wears a zoot suit with very wide lapels and a check so loud the Court Reporter has to don sunglasses when looking his way. He’s wearing a Tagheuer watch on his left front hock. As it has no sunrise/sunset setting, it’s largely for show.

In front of him is a thick sheaf of papers which forms the basis for his case against Senga Leo, the youngest lioness of the South Side pride. He’s trying in vain to stop his lawyer, Quagga, from nervously snacking on the paperwork. I wish Quentin hadn’t worn that wig – it’s so small it must have been made for a Shetland pony he thinks.

Graham is here to see justice done for the murder of his brother George. He’ll never forgive himself for letting his attention wander that fateful day. But this time the lions have to pay, he vows.

He’s already lodged an objection to the appointment of Peter Pardus for the Defence. He’ll terrorise the prosecution witnesses into saying anything he wants them to say – everyone knows a leopard never changes its spots. Graham knows too that Aquila likes Pardus – there’s even been talk of them lunching together on breast of dik-dik.

The defendant, Senga, has dressed demurely for her time in court, eyes lowered, paws together. She looks like such a nice pussycat comes the whisper from the public gallery, where groups of ladies in summer frocks have spread the contents of their picnic hampers. They’re making a day of it and, although they wouldn’t dare admit it to each other, they’re hoping for some blood before teatime.

Senga is surrounded by the members of her pride (a visiting auntie is babysitting the cubs). Even Big Jimmy’s here, although he looks bored already. She’s more nervous than she cares to admit and however hard she tries to control it, her tail is twitching furiously.

Aquila makes a final adjustment to his second-best wig. His wigs are all custom made from the fur of small mammals, as befits a beak at the height of his profession, but this one’s making him itch. He really must speak to his wigmaker, he thinks. And if there isn’t live rabbit for luncheon, he’s not going to be happy.

As a final surge of skittish equine teenagers rush in, noisily packing themselves into the public benches, the call is given to close the courtroom doors. GNU v LEO is underway.

ETHEL

How was she to know if she’d really seen God? She couldn’t ask the vicar because they didn’t let her attend Sunday service any more. Just because she got muddled that once and went to the 11 o’clock with knit-lock knickers over her frock.

They’d be sorry, she told them. She was the only one who knew the words to the hymns and definitely the only one to applaud the sermon. So when God appeared to her in the bookies, she was sceptical. Reg had been the gambler in their family. He’d say that God was on his side when he made a bit of a killing, but she knew he didn’t really believe.

She had started going to the bookies after he died. He was taken sudden, just before his horse crossed the line at Aintree. She liked the overhead telly and the company of Doreen, who took the betting slips and gave her a cuppa sometimes. That day though, nobody was paying her any attention, although she’d worn her pink water wings especially.

But there He was, in a corner. Kind eyes and a full head of hair despite His age. He wasn’t performing miracles or anything like that, He was just stood there. Looking out the window. Nonetheless, she knew Him straightaway. Well, you couldn’t not, could you? She’d have liked to speak to Him really, have a bit of a chat, but the Carmen rollers that Rosemary had given her for Christmas were starting to dig in so it was probably time to head home.

Where was home nowadays? Reg would have known. Come to think of it, where was Reg? He’d only gone out for a pound of sausages and some dripping, he should have been back by now.

She went out the door and waved to God as she passed the window. He looked right at her and smiled. So that was all right.

DOREEN FROM THE BOOKIES

I don’t mind. It’s sad really. Her old man was one of my regulars – evil old sod he was. Nearly always half-cut when he come in – I had to show him the door more than once. A bookies isn’t a ladies tea shop but you’ve got to have some standards, haven’t you?

He hadn’t been dead that long when she started coming. He’d keeled over at Aintree, she said. Before the finish and all. His horse didn’t win anyway – I checked. At least she got to keep the housekeeping that week. I think she came out of curiosity – told me she’d never been inside a bookies in her life. Different times, I said. I suppose she wanted to see where Reg spent his time. Back then of course, she was all there. Sharp as a tack.

I never call her Ethel – she’s always Mrs Jenkins to me. And she calls me Mrs Thompson even though I said call me Doreen but she wasn’t having any. To be honest, she’s a bit of light relief. What with Mr Jack-The-Lad swanning off to meet his bit of stuff most lunchtimes and young Tracy with her head stuck in Hello magazine, it can get a bit lonely in here. I see her coming, usually with the shopping trolley trailing behind, and I put on the kettle. She never refuses a cuppa. Sometimes she brings biscuits with her, though I tell her she needn’t. What are they called – those biscuits – I had them as a kid – shortbread with jam in the middle – Jammie something or other.

She likes watching the big screen. I know she’s got a telly at home, because she told me, but I think it’s one of those little ones and her eyesight isn’t what it was. I help her up onto one of the stools in the corner and make sure she’s settled before I go back to work. If it’s quiet, we have a bit of a chat. I’ve told her about my Claire, how worried we are, and she talks about Eric, her son. He’s a soldier, she says, looks lovely in his uniform. My husband told me that Eric was killed in the ’70s, on one of those training exercises they have on Dartmoor. He says I shouldn’t encourage her, but I don’t see why not. He’s alive in her mind, isn’t he – what’s so wrong with that?

She’s started to dress a bit funny recently. We’re not quite at the knickers on the head stage but I can see it’s not far off. One day she was limping and I asked her what was wrong. She said she hadn’t been able to find the other shoe – and when I looked down, she was wearing one high heeled court and one slipper with a pink cat on it.

The other day, she was all excited. Asked me if I’d seen Him. “Him?” I said. “Who?” “Him” she said. “God”. I was taken aback, I don’t mind telling you. I knew she’d been a church-goer, but she never talked about that side of things. Then she said that He’d been here – in the bookies. I said “How did you know it was God?” She looked at me pityingly and said “You just know, don’t you?” Not a lot you can say to that. She said He smiled at her and that she gave Him a bit of a wave.

I hope it’s not going to be a pattern. This God thing. We had a punter, years ago, who thought he was Jesus Christ. Knew all the dead certs. Said that when his big win came up, he’d share it with us. Seeing as how he never won more than a fiver, I couldn’t see how that would work. Like the loaves and the fishes, he said. He came to a sticky end, that one. The pretend Jesus Christ.

THE REVEREND CLIVE

He rather missed Ethel and her lusty rendition of the old hymns. And was it prideful of him to admit that her spontaneous applause for his humdrum sermons gave him not only great pleasure but the courage to persist with his ministry in this city backwater?

When he arrived here sixteen years ago, she was among the first to welcome him with a chocolate cake of her own making, he remembered. He was a young curate then, too green to know that the consumption of parishioners’ baked goods was to be undertaken with caution. He was ill for three days and three nights. Although hardly on a scale with the tribulations of St John, he emerged from the experience feeling righteously purged.

Ethel had her troubles. That indolent husband of hers who ranged only as far as the pub or the bookies. And a soldier son killed in a tragic accident on Dartmoor. But she remained a lively and buoyant character. The ladies on the Church Flowers rota were however not fond of her and neither was his own dear wife, a rather unforgiving woman. He smiled as he remembered Ethel’s controversial Harvest Thanksgiving – Weeds Are Flowers Too.

When his conscience pricked him, he would pay a pastoral visit to the small terraced house she’d lived in for over fifty years. He made a point of wearing his clerical collar on these occasions since the time when Ethel mistook him for Reg, her deceased husband, and became disconcertingly flirtatious over a plate of Jammie Dodgers. He rather regretted that the collar was now considered unfashionable by most of his congregation.

He hoped that when her time came, as come it must to all souls, they would ask him to conduct the service, even if it took place at the council crematorium rather than in the arched Victorian splendour of St Michael’s. He would instruct the young organist engaged for these occasions to play two of Ethel’s favourites; ‘Fight The Good Fight’ and ‘Nearer, My God, To Thee’.

ERIC – THE SON

Hello Mum. I wish I could pick up the phone and talk to you like I used to – I miss that more than anything. I think you do too. But this’ll have to do. I see you’ve put that photo of me in Christmas Tree order up on the mantelpiece. That was taken in Aldershot, wasn’t it?

Bloody photographer took forever – I was sweating my guts out under those lights. It was like being on parade on a hot summer’s day. No wonder blokes pass out – it’s like a sauna out there in the ranks.

I’ve had a bit of time to think here, Mum. Not that they don’t keep you busy, but there’s still a lot of quiet – y’know. It’s good though. It’s like that quiet that we had, you and me and sometimes Dad, after you’d fed us your best Sunday dinner. A kind of full up quiet, content. You’d try to get me to have a second helping of pudding and I’d say “No Mum, just a cup of tea maybe?” If I’d eaten everything you wanted me to, I’d have been too fat to make it into the Army, wouldn’t I?

Oh sorry. Sore point eh? I know you blamed Dad for me joining up. Well, you were always mad at him for something or other, weren’t you? But the truth is, it was just as much my idea as it was his. I wasn’t going to get any sort of decent job on civvy street with no O-levels. The Army seemed like a good deal. And honestly Mum, I had a good time. I loved all that square-bashing, even though I wouldn’t have admitted it to my mates. Made you feel proud, belonging to something. And they taught me to drive – I wouldn’t have been able to afford lessons otherwise. The driving was a mixed blessing, mind you. If I hadn’t been driving, I wouldn’t have been upside down in that bloody tank, dead as a doornail.

Remember that first Christmas when I’d just finished basic and I came home in uniform for the first time?

Auntie Winnie and Uncle George came round and I got our David drunk on that sherry you kept at the back of the cupboard. That was a laugh, though Dad didn’t think so. He would have thumped me if he’d had the nerve. You got all the neighbours in, gave them some guff about Christmas cards, but truth was you wanted to show me off. “Eric’s learning to drive tanks, aren’t you, love?” I was a bit embarrassed to be honest, but as it was you, Mum…

I know you hoped I’d get together with Susie from Number 88, maybe even get married. We did have a bit of a fling (I kept that quiet, didn’t I?) but it wasn’t anything serious. She married my mate Dave in the end, remember him that came for tea once? Tall skinny bloke, you force fed him your fruitcake. I’m sorry you never got any grandkids though. I would have liked kids really, but it doesn’t matter to me now. I see Rosemary’s kids visiting you sometimes. She’s turned out all right, Rosemary, hasn’t she? Even if she’s a bit of a nag. First you have Dad on at you all the time then there’s Rosemary – poor old Mum!

I like sitting with you some nights, just you and me in the old house. That big tabby cat sat on your lap – he doesn’t like me much, does he? But Mum, you want to watch it. Talking about me to folk like I’m still – well – alive.

WINNIE – THE SISTER

I had set out the blue china for afternoon tea and my dollies were dressed in their best frocks when she ruined it all. She’d been playing with the dog in the garden and they came tearing into the lounge. The table went flying of course – the teapot and the slices of Battenburg with it.

Mother had warned her if there was one more incident with that dog, it would have to go. I for one was glad to see the back of it – smelly, noisy thing.

I was always careful with my belongings, especially my collection of books. Ethel would tell you she’s always loved books, but ask her how many of them she defaced when she was a child and that would be a different story. I opened my Grimms Fairy Tales one day to find things scribbled in the margin by ‘Miss Ethel Fletcher, age 10’. And between the last page and the back cover, there was a rosebud, half-pressed.

She wasn’t any better when she grew up. Her going-away outfit lacked a nice handbag, so I loaned her my best, as any good sister would. It was tan crocodile skin with a gold clasp and it had taken me months to save for. I should have known better. I got it back I don’t know how much later with the clasp broken and a scratch along the side. There was only the sketchiest of apologies from Madam.

Reg Jenkins was a common little man. Mother could scarcely credit that Ethel was intent on marrying him, but marry him she did. And, as the saying goes, repented at leisure.

Oh she pretended they were happy, but everyone knew how far from the truth that was. I was so lucky to have my George. He never caused me a day’s worry in all his life and he gave me two lovely children. But Reg? Died at a racecourse after gambling away everything they had. I only attended the funeral out of consideration for poor Ethel.

It’s been difficult this past year. With Ethel going a bit – funny. There’s never been a history of that in the family, I told them, Mother and Father were both sharp as tacks till the day they died. Rosemary’s been a great help – in her line of work, she comes across things like this all the time, she tells me.

Sometimes though, and I know as a Christian I shouldn’t say this, for Jesus was very keen on helping the unfortunates of this world wasn’t he, but sometimes, I wonder if she isn’t just making it all up, just to get the attention.

ETHEL

Her petticoats rustled and she felt as light as gossamer as they waltzed around the dancefloor. He was stoneyfaced, which was off-putting, but she put it down to his dance shoes being a bit on the snug side.

“Reg, d’you want to sit the next one out?” she asked. “Yes all right. Why don’t I get us some drinks from the bar?” he said. Half an hour later, he hadn’t returned. He’d probably found a new friend at the bar to talk to. He was always finding new friends, people she was never introduced to. She smoothed the red crepe-de-chine of her frock with gloved hands and waited.

When she opened her eyes, the red balloon was gone and Mother and Winnie with it. She scanned the beach and saw them in the distance, heading towards the promenade. She jumped to her feet and ran after them. Why had they left without her? And where was the red balloon?

She’d made a fuss earlier about getting that balloon and Mother had told her to stop drawing attention to herself, that there were to be no balloons until they got to the beach. She’d sulked then, something she was good at. Winnie never sulked. Ethel hated her sometimes.

“Are you all right, Ethel?” she heard a voice say. What did they mean, all right? She was here, wasn’t she? It seemed a long way to come just to get a balloon but she supposed they knew best. She was getting thirsty – Reg had been gone such a long time. “Can I have a drink of water?” she asked. Somebody made an impatient gesture and she saw that the tea in front of her had hardly been touched. She wished she’d stayed at home now.

She calls me Teddy. Unoriginal I know but I don’t mind. This is my story. I belonged first to the little boy who was conceived in the closing months of the war. He was an intense child, but very careful with his toys. My fur stayed fresh and clean and although I was well hugged, I sustained no injuries during my time with him. But being a boy, he went onto more boyish things in time, and in his eighth year, he was absorbed with his Airfix model aeroplane kits and I lay abandoned in a cupboard.

His sister was born then and she became my second human. We were constant companions. The mother altered the child’s old barricot gowns to fit me so I would be warmly swaddled for our visits to the park. The girl would push me back and forth on the swings (she was a little afraid to swing on them herself at this time) and hug me tight while she spun on the roundabout. We went to the zoo where, tucked into her pushchair, I gazed at some distant cousin bears and they gazed back at me. I was glad to be friend and comfort to this anxious little girl, but oh she was hard on my health…. First I lost one of my bright bead brown eyes in too vigorous a game. The mother kept the eye in her button box, meaning to mend me, I know. Then a tussle with her brother, tugged this way and that, resulted in an arm being pulled out of place, so much so that my straw threatened to spill out. The mother patched my wound with an old sheet but my shoulder was never the same again.

In time the little girl grew into a woman. She still suffered from night fears and secretly cuddled me in the small, lonely hours. I listened to all her hopes and fears and knew that I was much loved. In time, of course, we grew less close and I became more of a watcher than a participant in her life.

She was a troubled wanderer and I went in and out of packing cases more times than I wish to remember. She would say that it wasn’t truly home until Teddy had been unpacked and put in pride of place. Thankfully, she became more careful with her things, although one of my ears has never recovered from a gooey mess of medicine that spilled onto me during a sickly winter.

I’m an old bear now – I was made more than 60 years ago – and my paws and snout are sparse and worn. I never did have plush for fur and was always entirely the wrong colour. No toy historian will ever look at me and exclaim ‘Why, this bear is rare and terribly valuable’. Times were hard when I was made, and I was and am a very ordinary bear. I still have pride of place in a corner of her bedroom and sometimes she taps my nose affectionately as she passes. Now she’s about to take my photograph. I know I’m pretty battered looking, but we wartime bears are stoic, and I’ll try to look my best.

This photograph was taken in the back garden of Retta Cottage, 2 Edward Street, Hamiton. The photographer has arranged some items from the house as props. A rug has been flung over the fence to make a backdrop and there are potted aspidistras on either side of the men. The photo’s purpose was to show four generations of a family who were all named Robert Benson.

It was clear that this was a professionally taken photograph and thanks to some terrific help from Angela at the Reference Library in Hamilton, I discovered that it appeared in the Hamilton Advertiser for 13 May 1933, with the caption ‘The Four Robert Bensons’. No story accompanied the photograph, but there were details of who the men were.

The eldest Robert – he of the luxuriant mouser – was 82 here and had outlived two wives, Euphemia Baxter and Agnes Craig. He and Euphemia had 7 children, all boys. This accounts for the masses (and I do mean masses!) of Bensons who followed. Had it not already been a common name in the west of Scotland, Robert’s contribution must have ensured that it became so.

The last of the Bensons to be born in Linlithgow, his father was the first to be named Robert. The male line was vigorous, most of them living into their 80s – the same, alas, can’t be said for their poor wives! According to my mother (who was 17 when her great-grandfather died) Robert Senior was to be approached with caution. As he’s glowering in every photo I have of him, I wouldn’t be at all surprised. He looks trim of figure and rather nattily dressed. I imagine him flinging open the bedroom window to do his callisthenics then shouting to his daughter-in-law ‘Nell! Have my best breeks got a good crease in them? The man frae the Hamilton Advertiser’s coming today.’

The next generation is the craggy-faced gentleman on the left, aged 61. Like his father and grandfather before him, he was a colliery engine keeper at the pit. This Robert married a gentle Irish girl called Nell Wilson on Christmas Day in 1896. (Churches don’t do marriages on Christmas Day anymore, do they?) My mother spoke warmly of her grandparents, although Robert was typically brusque in the way of his generation. Oddly though, Mother never told me that Nell was Irish – I had to find that out for myself and I haven’t yet found a birth record for her.

This Robert had a relatively small family – two daughters Rachel and Euphemia and one son, yes you guessed, Robert. Rachel was known as Retta and I wonder if she was always content with that version – as a Rachel, I must say I would have hated it. Euphemia was of course Effie – my wonderfully characterful great-aunt.

Son Robert (who’s the youngest man in the picture) was named with plenty of reminders of the family’s history. He was Robert Spence Thom Benson. Individuals with multiple names are a godsend in genealogy, with an instant link back through the generations. My Aunt Effie gloried in hers and signed Euphemia Gibb Baxter Benson with a flourish. Robert was my mother’s ‘Uncle Bob’ . He and his wife Barbara were apparently cheerful folk in contrast to the dourness of some of the Bensons – maybe Barbara was responsible for that.

The little boy, the youngest Robert Benson, is aged about 8 here and was instructed to sit on his great-grandfather’s chair. He protested vehemently and with tears, but was told sharply to obey by the old man. You can see just how uncomfortable the poor thing is by the way he’s perching there. In my mind, this boy is always ‘Cousin Bobby’ but he’s actually my mother’s cousin, not mine. He got his share of family names too – Baxter & Hunter (his mother’s maiden name). He would, in his turn, also live at Retta Cottage.

Three piece suits were still required dress for formal occasions, complete with breast-pocket hankies (a patterned one in the case of the young man). This family were never, to my knowledge, poor enough to suffer the ignominy of wearing your best suit to church on a Sunday then pawning it on Monday morning till the next week. The old man’s suit was built to last – the waistcoast is cut high at the neck in the old style. His grandson wears a suit with a bit of a check in it and what looks like a striped shirt (but still with detachable white celluloid collar). The two older men are both wearing fob watches in their waistcoats – these would be handed down through the generations. The youngest man’s hairstyle looks almost modern, and his son’s locks look to have been tamed by Brylcreem.

There are Robert Bensons still in my generation. I hope the name survives, continuing that tradition which began almost two hundred years ago.